


In Defense of Bad Decisions

by sleepdraught



Category: Dimension 20 (Web Series)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Campaign 03 Season 01: The Unsleeping City, Canon Compliant, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Mutual Pining, Romance, Tenderness, esther is a morosexual and we applaud her for it, well a mild version of it anyways
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 23:27:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29000670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepdraught/pseuds/sleepdraught
Summary: The Paradoxical Amative Axiom: any given entity that has been ensorcelled or cursed to avoid a certain target emotion for fear of submitting to said ensorcellment or cursecanstill fall to insipient impulses regardless of how much said entity has prepared.Or: against all odds and against all reason, Esther is the one who fell first.
Relationships: Ricky Matsui/Esther Sinclair
Comments: 15
Kudos: 95





	In Defense of Bad Decisions

_(In her defense, she certainly didn’t fall at first sight.)_

Ricky Matsui is a stunning man, for sure, but Esther’s first impression of him is that he’s also dumb as a rock and weirdly, creepily unflappable.

When the Clinton Hill Chantry caught on fire, he was first on the scene. The other firefighters hadn’t even exited the truck yet by the time he was storming into the building like a one-man hunky army, stocky-built and strong, with a steadiness that screamed surety and confidence even as he led Esther out of the chantry to safety. Perhaps it’s in her favour that he, out of civic responsibility, insisted on doing the classic fireman’s carry over one broad shoulder. Would her heart have survived if he’d done a princess carry? Esther’s never felt like a princess before, nor did she ever want to feel like one, but there’s only so much a single, lonely woman can take—and being princess-carried out of a burning building by an absurdly hot fireman would’ve shattered even _her_ carefully constructed limits.

When she means dumb as a rock, she doesn’t mean intelligence—well, now that she thinks about it, before she really got to know Ricky, before he even had a name that wasn’t Hot Fireman, she _might’ve_ meant intelligence.

Ricky Matsui is not dumb. But the Hot Fireman, who walked purposefully through aisles of magical floating artifacts and barely spared their glowing map of the Highway Hex anything more than a cursory glance, was either dead weight between the eyes or purposefully obtuse.

But what she really means is that, after helping half a dozen wizards out of a burning chantry and successfully extinguishing the fire before it could destroy any precious items inside, a magical sword had shattered itself out of its glass display case, turned into a brilliant red fireman’s axe, and flung itself into Hot Fireman’s hands. And all the Hot Fireman said was a thoughtful, “Huh. Be careful of that glass, you might cut yourself.”

Now _that,_ Esther thought, was dumb as hell.

She hadn’t planned on inducting a new member into the Gramercy Occult Society and the Unsleeping City as a whole in the same day she nearly got burned alive (honestly, she’ll put her silver bat to Grant’s face herself if he _ever_ tries to practice that fireball spell inside the chantry again). But when the hubbub dies down, the firetruck leaves the scene, and the Umbral Arcana does its work to hide the chantry’s secrets from curious mortal eyes, Esther sits Ricky down and explains that he is, somehow, inexplicably, against all belief, the chosen one of the Questing Blade.

“Any questions?” she asks him once she’s gone through all the basics.

The look of faint befuddlement and vacancy behind his eyes tells her that Ricky doesn’t understand half of what he heard. But all he asks is, “Can I still work as a firefighter?”

“Of course,” she says. Then, with some irritation: “Are you following anything I just said?”

Ricky shrugs his shoulders. “Not really.” Esther’s about to let out a frustrated sigh and restart her explanation with significantly fewer four-syllable words when Ricky suddenly adds, “It’s not that hard, though, right? There’s another version of New York that’s been here the whole time. And that means there’s another version of problems that need solving and people that need help, right? So I’m still a firefighter, but now I also help them, too.”

He looks up at her, and she’s struck at the deep richness of his dark eyes, the way they look warm and kind even when he doesn’t smile. It’s a kindness that radiates without any outward physicality. “Did I get that right?”

Esther takes a moment to compose herself. Then she says, quietly, “Yes. Yes, I—that’s exactly right.”

And she realizes, instantly, that Ricky Matsui isn’t dumb at all.

* * *

_(In her defense, she’s been careful all her life.)_

Esther’s spent a long time alone. And she’s spent even longer being careful.

It’s too painful for her to visit any more than twice a year, but her visits to Tompkins Square Park are a useful way to remind herself of what will happen if she succumbs to the Sinclair curse. Her mother and grandmother, timeless and ancient and awful and beautiful and otherworldly, are reminders of her fate if she is not careful.

So she avoids reading anything more emotional than an academic textbook. She doesn’t watch TV or listen to the radio, on the off chance that one of those stupid sad commercials about the consequences of drinking and driving come on and destroy her in one go. She limits her range of music options to anything hard and fast and nowhere close to sentimental.

She smiles at Alejandro and looks up to him as her mentor with both warmth and distance, liking him but never allowing herself to feel anything far beyond that, even though he’s the closest thing she has to family right now. His granddaughters, luckily, are too busy being teenagers and snickering over inside jokes to truly strike a friendship with her, and for that she’s eternally grateful. Then there’s the other wizards in the Society, but that’s even easier—she can withdraw behind the curtain of research, of academic focus, the veneer of colleagues rather than friendship. And god, it’s so easy improving her magic when magic is all she has to focus on.

She doesn’t think of how Alejandro is already well into his nineties and not getting any younger. She doesn’t think of how her twenties are slowly drifting away with no change, no milestones, no intimacy, and how unless she finds a way to miraculously break the curse, her thirties will go very much the same way. And her forties. And fifties. She doesn’t think of her mother and grandmother, wandering the park, all those years lost and never coming back.

She doesn’t think of those things until she does, and when she does, she triggers her cantrip and lets the emotions die. Cut off at the root before the bloom. Detached. Clinical. People are there, and then they aren’t. She will be alone. It’s fine. It doesn’t hurt unless she lets it, and she never lets it. It’s _fine._

And she tells herself that over and over again until she wholeheartedly believes it to be true.

It’s so easy.

* * *

_(In her defense, she’s never met anyone like Ricky Matsui.)_

He shows up the moment she gives a call. It doesn’t really matter where he is. She needs him for a job, she calls, he’s there in about ten minutes flat. When she asks, he says “I used the rooftops—seemed quicker,” as though that’s not the craziest shit she’s ever heard in her life.

Ricky Matsui is an enigma, and Esther’s whole thing is that she looks at an enigma and becomes obsessed with picking it apart and figuring out how it works. A month ago, Ricky had lived in a world where magic didn’t exist and fires were the biggest danger he faced. Now, magic exists and Ricky frequently has to grapple trolls to stop them from trying to eat an unwitting, Umbral-blinded New Yorker.

And he still acts the exact same.

She’s pegged him for a workout-loving jock type the moment she first laid eyes on his biceps, so him admitting he doesn’t read a lot of books, like, ever, is totally unsurprising. The two of them are polar opposites. It’s honestly ridiculous that they even get along as well as they do.

He’s both curious and utterly content, all at the same time. Rather than being stupid, it’s more like Ricky’s just okay with not knowing things. Somehow, the more she thinks about it, the more it doesn’t seem that stupid at all.

What _is_ surprising is that he may not ask a lot of questions, but he asks _her_ questions. He comes up to her and says something like, “So are demons real? Just, y’know, wanted to check.” Or maybe he’ll ask, “That Kingston guy, you said he’s a Vox Populi? What is that again?” Or he’ll point to a random object or book and say, “So, this. Um. What’s its deal? Y’know, just curious.”

Esther’s not sure what _his_ deal is, but she can’t resist talking about the Unsleeping City or her arcana research. So she usually drops everything to explain it, then explains it again when she realizes he doesn’t get it.

The whole charade normally ends with Ricky, who clearly only understood maybe half of what she told him (and that’s an optimistic guess), nodding sagely and saying, “Awesome, I get that. I mean, okay, I don’t really get that, but like, you explained it really well, I think.”

And it’s such a silly response that it makes Esther laugh, every time, even though she tries so hard not to and feels bad whenever she does.

You’d think that, after a few more attempts, Ricky would eventually give up on asking her for clarification on anything, given that she keeps screwing up and making fun of his apparent cluelessness. But instead, he does it again. And again.

And after about a month or two of this, Esther realizes she hasn’t smiled or laughed nearly half as much before Ricky came into her life.

* * *

_(In her defense, she’s never been as strong as she’d like to think.)_

Coffee monsters. Truly. This is the peak New York experience.

Esther curses under her breath as she bashes her bat into a congealed, murky sludge mass of stale coffee, all gritty and gross like the dregs at the bottom of a cup, then has to immediately make a saving throw to avoid getting splattered with boiling hot liquid. Alejandro’s granddaughters are here, too, Ana and Amelia fighting back-to-back as they attempt to avoid getting burned as well.

She dodges as one of the sludge creatures slinks after her, burbling something about liking coffee the way they like their men (Kingston would’ve _hated_ that, if he was here), but she stumbles a little with a bad agility check and cringes as hot coffee splashes along her leg and begins to sizzle. Her knees buckle, and she momentarily collapses to the floor of the ransacked café.

She’s okay—she knows she is—she’s a goddamn wizard and she’s gotten her licks in before plenty of times—but what she’s not expecting is Ricky instantly disengaging from his own opponent, fireman’s axe gleaming with holy light, and blasting the sludge so hard it straight up evaporates into bitter coffee-flavoured mist.

“You okay?” he says as he runs up to her, panting a little. He’s got his own burns, they all do, but he grabs her hand and hoists her back up to her feet so gently, so carefully, and he has that look in his eyes like he’s kicking himself for not somehow protecting her from all harm, for not coming fast enough. “How’s your leg?”

Before she has a chance to say anything, she feels a holy, civic warmth spread from Ricky’s fingers and travel through to her. She blinks, and the burns dissipate; the pain is gone not just from her leg, but her entire body.

“I was alright,” she says, although her voice sounds odd when it echoes back in her ears, tight with something unidentifiable and frightening. “Really. You probably should’ve saved that for someone else who—who’d need it.”

Ricky blinks at her. He looks at her strangely, like for a moment all that placid, easygoing calm melts away and he’s putting every ounce of his attention onto her, a fireman heart and soul facing an open flame. She’s suddenly desperate, so desperate, to figure out what’s going on through this man’s head, and she searches his gaze to try and find it with no luck.

Ricky Matsui is an enigma, not out of secrecy but just out of sheer oddness, and in this moment she truly doesn’t understand what he wants.

“Yeah,” he eventually says. “I guess so. It’s awesome that you’re able to hold your own so well, just—y’know, I do _Lay on Hands_ for anyone around, and I have to touch them to do it, and. Well. I’m touching you now, so.”

His hand is still wrapped around hers. For a man so insistent on fighting fires, the heat emerging from his palms is enough to make Esther’s entire body warm up in response. There’s something wrong with her heartbeat. It must be all the caffeine she absorbed through the monster blood.

“Let’s get back into it, shall we?” she asks, and before Ricky can respond, she pulls her hand out of his grasp and renews her grip tightly around her beloved silver baseball bat, and she’s rushing into the fray without a backwards glance.

* * *

_(In her defense, she’s good at lying to herself.)_

It’s starting to come to her attention that Esther has, in fact, been denying her feelings towards Ricky Matsui.

The thing is, it’s just so _easy._

It doesn’t matter that he’s so kind and handsome and smart, really, he _really_ is smart and fuck anyone who says he goddamn isn’t. It doesn’t matter that he has the weirdest habit of sending selfies of himself doing quite literally anything (all of which secretly enter a growing folder). It doesn’t matter that his nose scrunches up whenever someone says something a little less than civically responsible, or that his eyes crinkle when he smiles wide, or that when he asks her a question and she has to explain it two or three times—starting from her usual arcano-babble and then watering it down using words he can actually understand—he focuses on her with a gravity to him she doesn’t see him do for anyone else, a heaviness without the pressure, like she’s the only person that exists in the world for him when she speaks.

It doesn’t matter that she realizes, maybe about six months into their acquaintanceship, that he likes her quite a bit and would very gladly become her boyfriend if she asked.

It doesn’t matter that she can barely comprehend this fact, even though her stupidly intelligent and over-analytical brain has managed to pick up on all the not-so-subtle cues that Ricky is into her. It doesn’t matter that she plays those moments—those awkward brushes of his fingers, those pauses of nervous silence, the more pointedly charming selfies, every single time he asks her a question simply because he wants to listen to her talk—over and over again in her head, when she’s alone, and pretends it doesn’t make her breath catch in her lungs.

It doesn’t matter that it’s strange and dangerous and frightening and deliciously delightful and overall mystifying that such a man could look at her and desire her like that, _her,_ some bookish nerd wizard who cares more about her research than she does people because she has no other choice. As though a man like Ricky Matsui didn’t have hordes of girls swooning at his feet every time he so much as takes a jog.

It doesn’t matter that one day she watches an interracial couple carry their toddler down the street, and the first thought that comes to her mind unbidden is _our kid would probably have my hair, his eyes, I hope they have his smile, I hope they have so much more of him than they would me,_ and she has to immediately drop everything and go to Tompkins Square Park to see her mother-Fury and grandmother-Fury to remind herself to never think those kinds of things, ever, because she can’t risk that dream.

It doesn’t matter, because she can detach. Snap up that cantrip and she can detach like she always does.

Focused. Clinical. The colleague veneer, shiny and laminated and separated by plastic.

She can do it, because she’s done it all her life. So Ricky Matsui likes her a little. So what. Infatuations don’t last forever. Soon enough he’ll move on, he’ll find someone a little less frigid, a little more encouraging, a little more _willing,_ and it’ll be like it never happened at all.

And it wouldn’t hurt—it wouldn’t be sad—she’d never regret—she’d never feel sorrow.

Because she’d never have felt anything for him in the first place.

* * *

_(In her defense, she was doomed from the start.)_

There’s a moment where she comes close, so close, to breaking.

There’s lots of stupid moments like that, actually, because Ricky Matsui is uncannily good at making her think _fuck it, just make out with him,_ sorrow be damned. There was that time when Pete and Ricky stayed in the chantry overnight and Ricky—mindlessly, but also somehow completely fucking aware of what he’s doing—took off his shirt right in front of her, and that moment was a pretty damn close breaking point.

But the final breaking point comes when Ricky enters the chantry one morning, after Esther’s only just come downstairs from her apartment and is still blinking back the faint vestiges of sleepiness, and he takes one look at her and says, “Oh, you changed your earrings.”

She startles at that, nearly dropping her mug of tea. She looks back at him and goes, “What?”

“Your earrings.” Ricky starts to point, seems to think it’s too rude of a gesture, and instead just sort of vaguely motions towards the general area of her head. “They’re different. I like them. They look cool.”

Esther had, in fact, switched out her earrings. Or more accurately, she only switched out one, changing one of her studs to a thin, silvery crescent moon. It was in honour of Nod, of the Society’s newfound relationship with the Vox Phantasma—Pete—and of that mystical sixth borough they’ve only just scratched the surface of understanding.

And somehow the fact that Ricky Matsui, who could name and describe every weightlifting machine in a gym but couldn’t tell a high heel from a platform boot, had spent enough time looking at her ears to notice such a minor change, breaks her.

She excuses herself quickly and escapes to the library, which is just a funny way of describing a room in the chantry that’s slightly more drowning in stacks of books than the rest of it. She can feel her heart jackrabbiting inside her chest, jumping to a frantic beat that feels both numbing and exhilarating, awful and wonderful.

“Fuck me,” she mutters under her breath. Which, well, that can go two ways. But she mostly means it in the _I-truly-fucked-up-this-time_ sense.

And she really has fucked up. The thing about denying something is that the denial only works if you don’t acknowledge it. And now she _has_ acknowledged it, albeit without meaning to or wanting to, and it makes the hurt all the sweeter and all the more dangerous.

When was it, that she started to love Ricky Matsui? Love him for everything that he is, his kindness, his bravery, his ridiculous selfie habit and overly optimistic way of thinking, his utter nonchalance over being born with a face and a body that can and has made the front page of newspapers in the city at least twice.

She wishes she could say that it happened recently, against her best judgement.

But the truth is that her best judgement was fucking shot at the start.

A more accurate theory would be to say that, eleven months ago, she saw a firefighter wander into a magical chantry, rescue a bunch of wizards, and barely blink when he was chosen to be a hero for New York City because all that meant to him was that he could help people, and helping people was what he was made for, and a small buried part of her knew intuitively that her heart was already gone.

* * *

_(In her defense, she had never met anyone so wonderful.)_

In her mother’s arms, Esther weeps with everything her broken, shattered heart can give, so happy she can barely speak. So sad she can barely breathe. Kugrash winces as Gabriela hisses venemously at him, looking smaller and more rat-like than she’s ever seen him before, but it’s truly hard to make out any details when the tears just keep streaming down her face and she’s starting to choke a little from the force of the sobs wracking through her chest. Her grandmother strokes her hair, her mother rubs her back like she’s a little girl again with a fever in bed, and Esther cries for the first time since she was eight.

For several long moments, she can’t hear anything over the roar of her own misery and triumph and joy. Then she starts coming to, distantly, and she can hear her own voice wailing out for Ricky, how much she likes him, how much she wants to jump his bones because god, mom, _Christ, he’s so_ hot _have you seen him? Did you see what I was_ going _through all this time?_

And then her mother is nodding sagely and her grandmother is tutting and agreeing and _oh yes, poor dear, you’ve had it rough having to deny yourself that handsome boy all this time,_ and she thinks Kugrash might be filming her but she doesn’t have the strength to pick up her bat and go investigate just yet.

Kugrash leaves to prepare to fight the American Dream, weakly asking for their help in the upcoming fight and receiving a profound fuck-you from Gabriela in return.

She doesn’t know how long she stays there, in Tompkins Square Park, curled up in her mother’s lap like a child, until the tears eventually dry up and she’s telling her mother and grandmother everything she’s always wanted to say—about the Society, and her work, and how much she loves it, how she’s found a really good new friend in Sofia, how Pete’s a bit rough around the edges but sweet once you get to know him, how even Kugrash has been a truly good guy all this time (Gabriela harrumphs but doesn’t interrupt). Mostly she keeps going back to how hot Ricky is, and how much she wants to fuck him, by which she means she wants to hold his hand and curl up in his arms and nestle in close to his heart and she wants to know what he looks like when he’s dreaming in Nod and when he’s half-awake in the morning sun and what he looks like when he’s forty, fifty, sixty years old by her side with grey hair and wrinkles and, yeah, she also wants to have sex with him _super_ bad and _mom, grandma, it’s so fucked up to spend a year with a guy who likes you and you like him and you guys can’t ever acknowledge it or even_ touch _each other and, god, he was such a gentleman about it this whole time but also it drove me up the fucking wall, I just wanna make out with him god_ dammit, _I love him so much, mom_.

She’s calmed down fully by the time she feels that distant call, Alejandro’s voice merged with someone else’s echoing her name in the wind. A portal of spitting fire, rippling like waves in a pond, spins into existence right there in the park.

“Be careful, sweet thing,” her grandmother says.

Her mother kisses her forehead like it’s a spell, like she can conjure up an abjuration around her daughter and protect her always. “Don’t you dare die before we’ve even had a family brunch,” she threatens.

Esther chokes out a laugh, the tears coming all over again. But god, what glorious tears!—all that joy and sorrow and pain and beauty and _love,_ everything sharp and vibrant and hurting just the perfect amount.

“I’ll come back and introduce you to my boyfriend,” she promises.

“Get us a signed photo of Mr. March!” is the last thing she hears Patricia Sinclair call out before she steps through the portal.

Fire whips around her, tousles her hair. She knows she must look a mess—grass stains all over her jeans, her makeup smeared down her face, mascara water-clogged and nose runny and eyes puffy.

But she flies out of that portal smiling so hard her cheeks ache, a firm grip around her baseball bat. And the first thing she sees is Ricky Matsui’s beautiful, perfect face, and his voice wrapped around her name, calling her home to him.

* * *

_(In her defense, she’s loved him all this time.)_

“So I got a video from Kugrash, right before the battle.”

Ricky is the first to break their silence post-sexy times, after the two of them have caught their breath and spent a few minutes just resting in each other’s arms (Esther’s never felt more exhausted in her life—fucking firefighter stamina, Jesus Christ).

He has to wiggle away to grab his phone where it’s sitting on the hotel nightstand. Esther’s fingers spasm around his waist for half a second before she forces herself to relax, frantic to keep him there and close and safe. She thinks she might be acting too clingy, but when Ricky scoops up his phone and returns, he wraps one firm arm around her and holds her tight so she couldn’t move away if she tried.

It is, of course, the video of Esther sobbing and bemoaning Ricky’s hotness. It must’ve been the last thing Kugrash had sent anybody.

Ricky lets the whole video play out with—dare she say?—uncharacteristic smugness. “I think you say you want to fuck me at least nine separate times,” he says, amused.

Esther groans. Leans her head against the broad expanse of Ricky’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I was, uh, emotional.”

“You say something about tying me down at one point, I think? It was kinda hard to hear through all your tears, but I’m pretty sure you told your mom that.”

She is eternally grateful to be born black and have her immediate flush of burning, embarrassed heat across her ears and cheeks go relatively unnoticeable. “God, I really am sorry. I don’t—I don’t mean to objectify you like that. I mean, you _are_ stupid hot—” she truly can’t think about his naked body being right next to hers right now or she will become profoundly distracted, “—but I, y’know. I like you for so much more than that. I really do.” She’s starting to babble. “I don’t want you to ever feel like I’m just in it for your looks or your body or whatever, like, I don’t want you to think I’m only in it for Mr. March and not at all Mr. Matsui—”

“Hey, hey, I get it,” Ricky laughs. He snuggles even closer and presses his lips to her forehead. Not really a kiss, more just a point of connection. He mumbles against her skin, “I’m glad Kug sent me that video. I know you had your reasons, and I’ll never owe him enough for breaking your curse. But. Still. It’s nice knowing how you’ve felt all this time, and I wasn’t just hopelessly pining after you.”

 _Hopelessly pining._ Esther’s heart swells until she thinks it might crack open her ribcage. There’s a lump in her throat, and for once she both revels in it and still fights it down. Nothing will ruin a post-coital snuggle session like bursting into noisy tears.

“Tell me more about that.”

She can feel Ricky’s smile against her forehead. “I have a feeling I wasn’t as good at hiding it as I thought.”

“You really weren’t,” Esther says, smothering a grin of her own.

“You know I’m not too good with words. But, well, you’re a beautiful, cool, smart wizard with a baseball bat, and your brain can run laps around me. I was a goner from the beginning, I just didn’t know it yet.”

“But I kept laughing at you. I tried not to, but you said the funniest things when you didn’t understand my explanations.”

“I did it on purpose. I wanted to make you laugh.”

“I didn’t know if it’d ever get broken,” she eventually whispers, after a period of comfortable silence. “My curse. I looked day after day, but I think I’d given up hope already. If it didn’t, I don’t … I don’t think …” She struggles to find the right words to say, but for once her mind can’t come up with anything remotely clever. She settles with mumbling, “I wouldn’t have blamed you if you moved on.”

And for the first time in the whole of their history together, Ricky presses a fist to his mouth to try and stifle a snort. Esther tilts her head up to watch in disbelief as Ricky Matsui laughs at her.

“I know I’m kinda dumb,” Ricky says once he’s calmed down, then grins and shushes her when she immediately opens her mouth to protest, “but that’s just ridiculous. Sorry for being so rude, you got me worked up.”

“Which part is ridiculous?” Esther demands. She’s distantly aware that she’s grinning, ear-to-ear, but can’t quite make herself stop.

Ricky’s smiling too, like he usually is, but the look of hyperfocused gravity in his eyes as he regards her is for Esther only and always has been. “The part where you think I’d get a massive crush on a cool, smart _wizard_ with a _baseball bat_ and just be able to _move on_ to someone else.” He tucks her in further, into the crook where his shoulder meets his neck, like no amount of space between them is worth being separated. “Or the part where you think that, curse broken or not, I would’ve ever done anything to make you feel sad.”

And Esther has about a dozen different reasons on the tip of her tongue. Relationships are complicated things, feelings can die down, arguments can arise, fights can break out. Misunderstandings or insecurities can be just as easily a moment of sorrow than anything Ricky has control over.

But he says it with such confidence, in himself, in her, in their future and their dangerous life together, that she has no other choice than to believe him.

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on [tumblr](https://marshmallsy.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/marshmallsy)!


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